


Pictures

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Marvel
Genre: M/M, Mostly Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as part of the Spideypool Secret Santa for darkmoonmaiden, originally posted on Tumblr.</p><p>Deadpool has some pictures of him that jeopardise his secret identity. Peter wants them back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures

Part One

 “Shit.” Peter peers through the window, stomach fluttering with nervous anticipation. The glass is cracked and dirty, and the sky’s growing dark around him, but from what he can make out, the room beyond is cluttered and cramped. It’s enough to confirm his suspicions that finding anything is going to be difficult, let alone finding photos, which could be anywhere. “Well, like Aunt May always says, the sooner you start, the sooner you finish. Mind you, if she knew what I’m about to do, she’d probably say something like ‘don’t be such an idiot, Peter, do you want to get yourself killed?’”

The frame of the window is old and loose enough that he can wriggle his fingertips just under, then with his superior strength yank the whole thing up. It sticks for a second, warped wood grating against the frame, and then suddenly jerks up as he grits his teeth and shoves, slamming open loudly. Peter flinches at the bang. “Smooth, Peter, real smooth,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. His body tenses as he stares into the shadows, trying to see if something’s moving in the darkness or if he’s just been watching too many horror movies. Nothing leaps out; no scary, ghostly-pale women, no werewolves, no figures in hockey masks, not even the crimson-and-black masked face of the apartment’s occupant.

With a relieved sigh, he lets himself drop lightly into the apartment, landing in a crouch and warily looking around. He almost expects Deadpool to burst out from somewhere, for the lights to come on and the wail of police sirens to cut through the thick silence. It was the silence, as always, that was making him the most antsy.  “Sure hope this is the right apartment. Imagine the field day The Bugle would have if it wasn’t? ‘Spider-Man! Caught red-handed breaking and entering! We always knew he was no good!’” Peter steps forward cautiously, the floor rustling as he moves through the debris that litters the bare, dusty floorboards. Sweet wrappers crinkle and dirty magazines rustle as he walks silently across the room, blindly groping along the wall for the light switch.

“Oh god, it’s like a special episode of World’s Most Extreme Hoarders.” Peter debates turning the light back off for a second, horrified. It’s not like he’s the neatest of guys, but no mess he’s ever made has come close to  _this._  The room looks like a bomb went off in an arms depot crossed with a teenage boy’s bedroom; playboys  are scattered around the room, some open, spines broke and pages creased, used and discarded; socks lie scattered across the floor in sweaty little balls; there are swords everywhere – behind the flat-screen TV,  on the wall, on the coffee table,  _stuffed_   _down the side of the sofa_ ; the collection of guns takes up one whole wall to themselves, while bullet holes line the wall opposite, and Peter has a bad feeling about the large, rust-brown stain on the floorboards under his feet. “No, definitely the right apartment.”

For a squeamish moment, Peter thinks about just leaving, but that’s not the attitude of a superhero. What would Captain America think, if he found out Peter was afraid of getting his hands dirty? “I didn’t think he meant literally,” Peter grouses, swiping a finger along the edge of the coffee table and looking distastefully at the dirt, but he puts his best game face on and starts sifting through the reams and reams of crap. “Oh, the glamorous life of a superhero.”

It would be impossible to leave the mess exactly as he’s found it, given there’s no rhyme or reason to where anything’s kept, but Peter doesn’t care if it is obvious someone has been here. Deadpool couldn’t expect Peter to just let it go. Maybe he should be concerned about the mercenary seeking revenge, but Peter knows that in a fair fight he’s more than a match for the man. Of course, expecting a fair fight from Deadpool is just stupid, but Peter’s not planning to play completely by the rules himself if it comes to a fight.

“Yuk!” He stares in dismay at the boxers he’d just pulled out from down the side of the couch. “Are you kidding me? Spider-Man boxers? I didn’t even know they made these?” Maybe the man had had them specially made… it seemed the sort of thing he’d do.

“Well, they’re not in here,” Peter sighs, straightening up and looking round the room. “Here’s hoping the rest of the apartment isn’t as bad.”

Like everything Peter hoped for, he was left disappointed. The light in the hallway didn’t work, and it was with trepidation that he entered the next room, flicking the light switch as he went. The good news was that the lights in this room worked; the bad news was that it was lighting up Deadpool’s bedroom. “Never thought I’d end up here.”

It wasn’t actually as bad as the living room. The same peeling paint, cobwebs in every corner, bare floorboards underfoot, but without the huge amount of trash just littering the floor. In fact, apart from the giant king-size bed that dominates the room, it is fairly empty. “Nothing says classy quite like black silk sheets,” Peter mutters. There is no other furniture except a walk-in wardrobe in one corner, half-filled with clothes spilling out, almost all of which seem to come in varying shades of black and red, and it says something about Deadpool that the only thing consistent about him is his colour scheme. The wall by the bed is covered with posters that have been haphazardly stuck up, apparently using whatever was closest to hand for the task, including duct tape, and in one case, throwing knives, dug firmly into the plaster. Most of the posters are the standard half-dressed pin-ups that Peter had expected, but there are a handful of newspaper clippings, along with a few photos, that look like they’d been put up more carefully than the rest, close to the headboard, like Deadpool had wanted them near him.

Wincing, Peter climbs on the bed, trying not to think about what might have happened on this mattress, and kneels to examine the photos more closely. “Crud.” None of them were the ones he was looking for, although they did feature some people Peter recognised; Wolverine, looking surly in a party hat; Psylocke and a woman Peter vaguely recognises as Domino, neither of whom look particularly pleased to be having their photo taken; Cable, who is actually smiling at the camera, although that particular photo had been ripped in half at some point, before being clumsily repaired with sellotape. There was even a photo of Deadpool with his arm around a pretty red-haired woman that Peter recognises with surprise as Siren, who, to his even greater surprise, looks happy to be having a photo taken with Deadpool, her face screwed up with laughter and inclined towards the man as if he’d just made a joke.

Guiltily, Peter looks away, feeling vaguely voyeuristic for some reason. He’d never considered that by breaking into Deadpool’s apartment, he was breaking more than the law, that he was invading Deadpool’s privacy, had never considered the mercenary as someone who had a private life to be concerned about. The man never shut up, would tell anyone that would stand still longer than five seconds uncomfortably intimate details about his digestive system, crack rude jokes that’d make Tony Stark blush, and told countless, endless stories about his misadventures, all more improbable and exaggerated than the last. Peter had never bothered to wonder where Deadpool went when he finally left, had just been thankful he _had_  left.

Still, Peter can’t stop looking. He feels guilty but not  _that_  guilty, and his curiosity is overcoming his better inclinations. The newspaper clippings, to his embarrassment, turn out to be mainly of him as Spider-Man, shots he, in fact, had taken himself. Someone had doodled little biro hearts around him, and ‘DP <3’s SM!’ was scribbled a disturbing amount of times.  “Okay, this is getting creepy. Who am I kidding – it was always creepy, but this is downright alarming.” Peter shakes his head, resolutely trying to not think too hard about it. “Why do I get the psychotic, murderous fans? And should I be worried about what that says about me as a person?”

He shuffles towards the edge of the bed, wondering where the hell Deadpool could have stashed the photos if not here in the bedroom with the others. “Maybe he destroyed them. Yes, Peter, because that seems likely - the guy with a stalker-sized crush on you just decides to destroy the photos of you getting changed, that just so happen to expose your face. Let’s just leave and hope for the best, it’s not like they kinda jeopardize your secret identity or anything, nope.”

As he slides off the bed, the pillows shift and he spots the corner of a book poke out from under. Frowning, he lifts the pillow, eyebrows rising incredulously as a bright pink book and another gun are revealed. “Of course, the two things every teenage girl and grown male mercenary keep under their pillow.” Even though it has the words ‘Secret Diary’ literally written on it, Peter still can’t believe it. Shakily, he runs his hand over the cover. “Jackpot.” Even if it doesn’t contain the photos of him, he can probably use it as blackmail material to get Deadpool to hand over the photos.

The diary has a padlock on, but not one that Peter can’t pry open. He feels the faint flutters of his conscience as the padlock drops to the bed, the guilty whispering that maybe this isn’t right. Peter squashes his qualms firmly. It’s Deadpool! It totally doesn’t count! The guy took creepshots of him getting changed out of his costume. This was payback that Peter wouldn’t even be enacting if it wasn’t for that. Although his conscience still seems a little uneasy with his rationalising, Peter shakes it off, opening the diary.

‘do not read on pain of DEATH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Peter counts. Fourteen exclamation marks. A sure sign of a disturbed mind if he’s ever seen one.

‘trespassers will be shot. unless your a hot chick, then ill settle for a spanking. u can spank me or I can spank you, both work J’

“Ooo, I’m so  _scared_. I think I’d rather be shot.” Peter rolls his eyes and starts flipping through the pages.

He isn’t exactly trying to read anything, because given the sort of stuff Deadpool was okay sharing with the rest of the world anyway, he really didn’t want to know what kind of secrets the man confided to a diary. Still, some words jump off the page at him, words like ‘killed’ and ‘pain’ and ‘cut’ and ‘bleed’ and ‘stabbed’, words that paint a picture of a grim, bloody life. Most of the pages are stained with blood, a lot of them ripped in places where the writer had dug into the paper too hard with the pen, letters like open wounds bleeding ink. Towards the middle, there’s a gap where several pages have been torn out completely, leaving only the ragged edges of pages as evidence. Peter shivers, chilled, wondering what could have been so much worse than anything else in this record of a violent life misspent that Deadpool hadn’t been able to leave it in.

Hurriedly, he flips towards the latest entries, not wanting to dwell anymore. He turns a page, and there they are, the photos, clumsily taped to the page. Peter pulls them off, then freezes. His spider sense is setting off alarm bells in his head, and he can hear floorboards creak outside the room. Deadpool must’ve come in without him hearing. Peter stuffs the photos down the waist of his suit _, I really have to get pockets_ , hastily shoves the diary and gun back under the pillow, then leaps onto the ceiling just as the door swings open and Deadpool walks in.

The smell of charred flesh wafts upwards, and Peter gags silently, praying the black-and-red clad merc won’t look up. Whistling under his breath, the man moves across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “Honey, I’m home. Did ya miss me?”

For a moment, Peter wonders who the hell Deadpool is talking to, if he had somehow managed to overlook someone in the apartment, before the mystery is solved by Deadpool crawling up the bed to the headboard and planting a sloppy, wet-sounding kiss on the biggest newspaper clipping of Peter. “Hey, pooky, sorry I’m late, been a long day at the office.”

 _Well, that’s my creepiness quota for next month maxed_ , Peter thinks.

Deadpool grunts and sits back, reaching down to undo the straps of his boots and lets them fall heavily to the floor. Peter, above him, tries to inch surreptitiously toward the window, hoping to jump through while Deadpool is preoccupied with shrugging off his katanas and unstrapping his many belts and holsters, but  as he moves something round and hard whizzes past, nearly hitting him before it collides with the wall and falls to the carpet _. Holy frack, that was a grenade._  The pin is still in, so it seems Deadpool hadn’t spotted Peter and just decided to welcome him to his home Deadpool style, and that he wasn’t  _actively_ trying to blow himself up, just tossing around explosives carelessly.

There’s a series of thumps as knives and throwing stars and god knows what else gets dropped on the floor as Deadpool finishes divesting himself of the alarming amount of weaponry he apparently wears every day, and Peter looks around frantically for an exit. His panic gets kicked up a few notches as Deadpool reaches for the hem of his mask and starts tugging it up, revealing a thin strip of scar-rippled skin, because while Deadpool would probably stab him in the leg for breaking in, he would definitely kill him if he discovered Peter in the apartment while he hasn’t got his mask on. Peter gives up on stealth and just makes a leap for the window.

He almost makes it, but then his spider-sense kicks in and forces him to twist mid-air, out of the path of the knife that flies past him to bite deeply into the wall. A moment later Peter hits the wall too, and slides to the floor, letting out a winded gasp. Deadpool is on his feet, unsheathed sword in hand. “Where the hell did you pull that one from?” Peter groans, dazed, “out of your ass?”

“Not this time,” Deadpool answers flippantly, head cocked as he stares at Peter curiously, “’though if you ever want to try shoving a sword up your ass, I’d be happy to assist.” He seems to make his mind up about something, and stabs the sword though the mattress, moving quickly over to Peter, offering a hand.

“I can’t tell if that’s a threat or sexual harassment,” Peter says, cautiously accepting the hand up. He regrets it as Deadpool doesn’t relinquish his grip once Peter’s on his feet, whirling him around and slamming him into the wall, arm twisted painfully into a lock.

“Should’ve seen this coming,” Peter grates out, struggling until he feels something cold prick the fabric of his costume and rest along his neck. “Another knife? Seriously? How do you not jingle when you walk? If I have like a handful of change in this costume, it sounds like Santa Claus and all the reindeer are swinging around New York.”

“Ninja training,” Deadpool informs him conversationally. It sounds friendly, but Deadpool’s way too close for comfort, close enough that Peter can smell him, feel the warmth radiating off him. “And boy scouts. Always be prepared.”

“No way were you ever a boy scout,” Peter scoffs, trying to move his free hand so he has a shot at Deadpool’s face with his webbing.

“Not in this universe, that’s true, and never part of the conventional scouts, but…” Deadpool shrugs, a gesture Peter feels rather than sees, then says sharply, “Hey! Don’t even think about it Webhead!” The knife abruptly presses harder against Peter’s skin, enough that Peter’s afraid to swallow. “Hands against the wall where I can see them.”

Deadpool drops Peter’s other arm and reluctantly Peter places his palms against the wall. “Always wanted to say that,” Deadpool says, still closer to Peter’s ear than is necessary even for intimidation. “Now, nice as it is for you to drop by and pay me a visit, you really should’ve called first, Spidey, this is inexcusably  _rude_.”

Peter’s incensed enough by this that he can’t stop himself replying, “You’re one to talk,  _Wade_. Last time I checked taking pictures of people getting changed is rude.” He shuts his mouth, swallowing. His throat burns where the knife’s bitten in, and his heart beats sickeningly fast.  _How’d I get myself into this mess?_

“Now look what you’ve done,” Deadpool tsks. “You’re bleeding on my floor. Besides, last time I checked, public indecency was a crime. I was merely documenting a masked vigilante breaking yet another law.”

Peter doesn’t reply, deciding it’s not worth cutting himself up over.

“Hmm? Oh yeah.” Deadpool pulls the knife back a little. “So, was that why I found you in rummaging around my boudoir? Because I snapped a couple of pics that wouldn’t make my granny blush? Fyi, you still had your underoos on in all the shots.”

“When you say it like that you make it sound so  _tawdry_.”

“Sorry, but this isn’t your classiest hour, Spidey,” Deadpool says lightly. Still, Peter can hear the real anger under the words, feel it in the tightening of Deadpool’s fingers on his shoulder, pushing him harder against the wall.

“Hey, it’s not like you left me a choice! Or that, if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t have done the same!” Peter protests, twisting his head, neck burning as he does, to stare Deadpool in the eye, or rather, the whites of his mask.

“Yeah, but I’m not a good guy,” Deadpool growls, mask pulling tight round his mouth as he glares, “Thought you were meant to have a moral code or some bullshit.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, just glares back at Deadpool silently.

Deadpool sighs loudly, with theatrical exasperation, and tosses the knife on the bed, before planting his arms to either side of Peter, so he’s caged in by Deadpool’s arms. He has to press his back against the wall to avoid coming into contact with the other man, and he feels more constrained than he had with the knife against his neck. “So,” Deadpool says, “did you find the photos?”

Peter debates not answering, reluctant to admit he’d found the merc’s diary.

Deadpool must read the reluctance on his face because the man adds, “I wouldn’t lie, lying’s naughty, I’d have to punish you and not in the fun way. Plus, it’s not like I won’t find out anyway.”

“Yeah,” Peter admits, “I found them.”

For a moment, Deadpool doesn’t react at all. It’s scary, how utterly still and silent he is, how unreadable. Despite the mask, Deadpool’s amazingly expressive normally. Peter tenses, readying himself for the inevitable explosion of violence from the volatile merc. Deadpool finally moves, slams a fist into the wall beside Peter’s head so suddenly Peter flinches, hitting his head as he jerks back. Peter’s sure he’s going to be hit, going to feel another of Deadpool’s secret caches of knives pierce his flesh, but then Deadpool’s pushing back on the wall, spinning round and moving with jerky, yet controlled movements to the bed.

Peter doesn’t try moving just yet; to be honest, he’s not entirely sure his legs would hold him up right now. He’s no stranger to danger, but Deadpool’s the kind of unpredictable that scares him the most, the kind with little logic, that can’t be bargained or reasoned with. He swallows painfully, hand going to touch his throat. There’s a crusty line of dried blood across his neck that’s going to be difficult to explain but which feels shallow.  He watches as Deadpool tosses the pillows across the room. “I’m sorry I went in your diary.”

“’s a journal,” Deadpool grunts, holding the book in his hands. “Did you have a good laugh, reading it through? Plot’s pretty weak, backstory’s got more holes than a hooker’s tights, but you have to admit, it’s pretty  _funny_. The main character’s a loser, but at least he gets some good one-liners, amirite?”

“I didn’t read it,” Peter says quietly. He still doesn’t regret what he’s done, but that doesn’t mean he feels good about it.

Deadpool laughs, and it’s the most joyless sound Peter’s ever heard. “Sure you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Peter repeats, more emphatically. “Scouts honor.”

Deadpool snorts, and it’s not a laugh, but it’s a step up. “You as a scout, now  _that_ I can believe. Pretty sure I heard you rescued a cat from a tree the other day.”

“That was one time,” Peter says defensively, flushing under his mask.

“D’you help old ladies cross the road too?” Deadpool smirks, mask crinkling, as he absently reaches for the gun by the pillows.

“Yeah, because I’m nice, and unlike  _someone_  I don’t push them into traffic,” Peter retorts, warily watching Deadpool seemingly distractedly spin the gun. Deadpool doesn’t seem as likely to shoot Peter with rage as he had a moment ago, but that doesn’t mean he won’t just shoot him for shits and giggles.

“We all gotta get our kicks somehow, right?” Deadpool remarks, and it takes a moment for Peter to realise he’s not responding to Peter’s thoughts.

“Most people don’t turn to homicide for entertainment,” Peter replies, then, “so, we cool? Even stevens? I’ll leave now and we can forget this ever happened.” He makes a move to the window.

“Not so fast,” Deadpool’s still sat on the bed, but the gun’s cocked and aimed at Peter now.

Peter doesn’t bother to stifle his moan of frustration, clenching his fists. “Really, Deadpool? Believe it or not, I’m being less of a dick than I could be about this. I was tempted to Xerox your ‘journal’ at first and hand it out around the city, maybe mail a copy to Captain America…”

“Making threats now, are we Spidey-boy, not really your style is it? Besides, I don’t need your help publicly humiliating myself.” Deadpool swings his legs up so he’s lounging insolently along the bed, gun never wavering from dead between Peter’s eyes.

“So what do you want?” Peter asks, fed-up.

“Some photos to replace the ones you’re stealing. It’s not too much to ask, right? I’ll even let you keep your clothes on.”

“What a gentleman,” Peter rolls his eyes and shifts uncomfortably, thinking about it. He could fight his way out of here, but who knows how much destruction and possible danger that would create? “What do you _want_  the photos for?”

“Does it really matter?” Deadpool springs to his feet in one quick movement, whistling cheerfully as he rummages one handed in a box under the bed. “Do you really want to know?”

“Probably not.” Peter gives up. “Fine.”

“Cool,” Deadpool pulls out a camera and moves closer to Peter, who instinctively backs away. “What gives now?”

“I didn’t realise… do you want a photo of us, together?” Peter flushes, thinking of the various ways that could be interpreted, because he’s not dumb, and he’s fairly sure Deadpool wouldn’t mind pictures of them _together_  together.

For once, Deadpool doesn’t take the bait. “Yeah, I want in the photo, that a problem?”

“No, I guess not,” Peter says doubtfully, “just keep your hands to yourself.”

“No problem, I’m a gentleman, remember?” Deadpool moves next to Peter, slinging an arm around his shoulder and pulling him snug against his side.

“Hey!” Peter protests. Deadpool is sweaty and warm, and Peter swears he feels even more ridiculously muscled than he looks.

“I just wanna make sure we both fit in the frame, keep your panties on,” Deadpool says, holding the camera up above them and clicking. The flash goes off, temporarily blinding Peter, and while he’s blinking the dazzle out of his eyes, Deadpool slips his arm around Peter’s waist.

“Is this really necessary?” Peter asks, trying not to squirm.

“Yeah, and would it kill you to smile?” Deadpool asks, “anyone would think I’d twisted your arm into doing this.”

“And what an incorrect assumption that would be,” Peter says glibly, twisting away as Deadpool’s fingers brush his ribs. “Hey!” He chokes down a peal of laughter, “what did I say about keeping your hands to yourself?” He’s giggling helplessly by the time he finishes talking, because Deadpool is  _tickling_  him, and how is this his life again? “Stop,” he begs between laughter, grabbing Deadpool’s wrist.

“Magic word?” Deadpool is laughing too, the sadistic bastard, and the flash goes off again,

“I’ll web you up and call down enough spiders to eat you alive,” Peter threatens, though it’s probably not that effective since he’s almost crying with laughter.

“You’re bluffing,” Deadpool sounds both fascinated and terrified. “That’s not an actual power you have, right? It can’t be, that’s super-villain nightmare fuel, not goody-goody super-dweeb powers.”

“Are you willing to risk it,” Peter gasps, trying to look threatening.

“Nope, not today anyway,” Deadpool takes one last photo, then pushes Peter away while he’s still trying to blink the light out of his eyes, sending him stumbling into the window frame. The pain is a wake-up call, reminding Peter that they aren’t friends, that this was a business transaction, albeit a really odd one, rather than a shared moment of mutual enjoyment.

“So, we good now?” Peter asks, opening the window and climbing onto the sill.

“Yup.” Deadpool’s sprawled lazily on his back on the bed, squinting at the tiny screen on the camera as he clicks through the photos.

Peter squashes the urge to ask to see the photos, trying to tell himself he’s not even a little curious how they turned out, and not even a little irritated that Deadpool seems to have forgotten his presence now he’s got what he wanted. Still, he can’t resist a parting shot. “So, is this how you get all those photos?” He nods at the ones on the wall, “I was trying to figure out why you had so many up.”

He feels bad the moment the words leave his lips. Spider-Man’s famous for his big mouth, but usually his jokes aren’t  _cruel_. Deadpool’s mouth drops for a second, the merc left speechless for once, the wide, white eyes of the mask staring at Peter in reproach, then the gun’s in his hand again, camera discarded, tossed at the wall, fragile plastic and glass crumpling, and Peter’s leaping out of the window as the gunshot rings out, bullet narrowly missing him as he swings into the night, leaving Deadpool behind him.

He tries to tell himself he’s happy, that he got what he came there for. At home, in his own crappy apartment, Peter burns the photos over the oven, watching the messy writing on the backs blacken and blotch as the photos turn to ash. He had tried not to read Deadpool’s captions, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.

_‘Spidey getting’ naked in an alley.’_

_‘Spidey’s pretty cute under the mask.’_

_‘Maybe I’ll ask him to autograph this one.’_

_‘I’m gonna frame this one.’_

_‘My hero <3’_

Part Two

The next morning, Peter’s woken by the buzzing of his phone, which he catches just before it manages to vibrate itself off the bedside table. He groans, forcing his eyes open and glances at the screen. Ten missed calls and a dozen texts. His eyes widen, and he sits up, rubbing the sleep out of them. Alarm makes his stomach flip, because no one goes to that much effort to speak to him before 10am on a weekend for a nice reason _. Aunt May… I hope she’s okay._

He’s even more confused when he opens the first text and sees it is from Spider-Woman. Why would Jess be texting him? If it was serious, she could have got hold of him a lot faster and more effectively, so it couldn’t be anything too important. Unfortunately, her text is cryptic enough that he’s left as confused as he was before he read it.

‘ _Peter how much did you drink last night??’_

The next text is from Hawkeye, and just reads ‘ _HAhahahahahhahahahhah’_.

Johnny’s sent him a text too, asking if he’s okay and if there’s anything he wants to talk about. The rest of the texts are from other superhero friends and acquaintances, all of whom seem either vaguely worried or very amused about something Peter did last night. Since the only other thing Peter did last night apart from go to Deadpool’s was heat up a can of spaghetti-o’s to have on toast for the third night in a row, and while he admits those little pasta hoops and that tomato sauce probably aren’t rich in nutrients, he doubts his friends are texting him en masse to communicate their worries about his diet.

In the end, he texts Jess because he figures she’ll be the least insufferable to deal with early in the morning.

_‘Nothing. Why?’_

His suspicions are confirmed when Jess just forwards him a picture. It’s him and Deadpool, and had they really been that close? From the camera angle, it looks like Deadpool’s arm is around him, and Peter’s laughing, looking like he’s having the time of his life. Objectively, it’s a nice photo. If it was any one apart from Deadpool with him in the photo, Peter would probably print the photo off and have it framed. He can see why it must have confused everyone the merc had sent it to, because nobody looks that happy around Deadpool, and certainly no one lets him get all up close and personal like that unless they’re fighting him.

He fires off another text to Jess.  _‘Would you believe me if I said I could explain? Also, do you know who else was sent this?’_

_‘I’d like to see you try, but you don’t have to. It’s Deadpool, nothing makes sense. Um. Everyone?’_

Peter groans and rests his head in his hands for a moment.  _‘Everyone? Like, Avengers everyone or Daily Bugle’s running this as their front page everyone?’_

_‘Just the Avengers, no civilians. No need to flee the city yet, though, heads up, I think Clint’s going to make your life miserable for a while.’_

_‘Great.’_ Peter texts back, too grouchy to make a joke. He decides to avoid thinking about anything until after breakfast and coffee.

By the time he’s got some coffee down him and some overly sugary cereal, he’s feeling better. After all, it’s not really a big deal if a few people see a couple of pictures of him and the merc acting friendly. Like Jess said, it’s Deadpool. Nothing makes sense when he gets involved. So he satisfies himself by finding Deadpool’s number and firing off a text.

_‘Photos turned out okay I see. Did you send them to everyone in your phonebook or just the ones that know me?’_

He’s barely put the phone down before it’s buzzing with a reply.

_‘Holy shit is this Spidey??’_

Peter groans, realising he’s made a horrible mistake. Of course Deadpool doesn’t have his number – or rather  _didn’t_  have his number. That would explain why he wasn’t constantly being inundated with texts, sexts and dirty pictures.

‘ _No, whoops, must be a wrong number.’_ He sends back desperately.

_‘Silly Spidey, can’t pull the wool over my eyes! What’s up babe? You want a copy of the pix? I would have sent them to you, but you never call, you never text… it’s almost like you don’t want me contacting you.’_

“Babe? Really?” Peter mutters, then sighs as he catches sight of the time. He might not have work today, but that doesn’t mean he has the day off. He sends one more text, ‘ _I’ll pass, thanks. And it’s not almost like that, it is exactly like that. Lose this number, Deadpool.’_

He’s not surprised when his phone goes off seconds later, but he doesn’t bother to read the text, turning the phone off and leaving.

It’s a long day, and one where it seems like every minor bad-guy has decided that today’s the day they want to really get on his nerves. Nothing serious happens, but he’s kept dashing about from one side of the city to the other until sundown. He doesn’t even get a chance to get lunch, and low blood sugar levels combined with that morning’s rude awakening means he’s in a bad mood by the time he gets home.

His bad mood is not improved when he opens the door to his apartment and finds two bills waiting on his door mat. Closing the door and leaning against it, he tears open the first envelope.  _Like pulling off a bandaid_ , he reminds himself,  _just do it quick_. “They want how much?!” he yelps, staring at the bolded amount. “Where the hell am I going to find that?”

“Prostitution is always an option,” says a gravelly voice, and a masked head pops round the doorway to the living room. “Hey sweetie, cool digs.”

“Y-y-you?” Peter stammers, wide-eyed as he advances into the living room. “What the hell are you doing here?!” Deadpool looks out of place standing in Peter’s living room, next to the faded, vaguely 80’s wallpaper and cluttered bookshelves full of medical textbooks.

“Quiet down, Petey, don’t want the neighbours to complain.” Deadpool flicks a finger against one of the test-tubes set up on the table Peter uses for his experiments, looking around with apparent interest.

“How do you know my name?” Peter asks, in shock, “and how do you know my address?”

“Read it on your mail,” Deadpool shrugs, “and I got the GPS location from your cell phone.”

“Great. Perfect end to a perfect day,” Peter snaps. “So what you planning on doing now? Blackmailing me? I can’t pay you off, obviously, have you seen this dump? You want more pictures? Do you want me to strip?” Frustrated, he starts fumbling with his tshirt, pulling it up over his head.

“What?” Deadpool squawks, sounding freaked. “No, stop it!”

Peter lets his tshirt fall back down, covering him. Deadpool’s looking to the side awkwardly, one big hand rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. “Well, what do you want?” Peter says stonily. “Why’d you find where I live, why’d you find out my name?”

“I just wanted to pay you back for breaking into my house, alright?” Deadpool snarls, advancing menacingly on Peter, but he refuses to be intimidated in his own home and doesn’t back down.

“I wouldn’t have broken in if you hadn’t taken those pictures of me, we’ve been through this! We were even,” Peter says, shoving Deadpool in the chest with disgust, wanting him to move away.

“Even? Ha! Like we could ever be even,” Deadpool says bitterly, slamming Peter back and crowding closer, getting up in his personal space. “You got what you wanted, you were happy. What about me, huh? Why can’t I get what I want for once?”

“You got your stupid photos,” Peter hisses, looking up at Deadpool angrily, “I played along and made nice because I felt sorry for you, and it would have been fine if for once in your life you’d just left it, Deadpool, but you can’t can you? You have to take everything a step too far, and that’s why you’re never happy! It’s your own fault!”

“Shut up,” Deadpool says, tone murderous, but Peter’s beyond caring.

“You going to make me?” Peter taunts recklessly, adrenaline coursing through his body.

Deadpool smiles slowly, red fabric stretching over his lips, “Since you asked for it, sweetheart.”

He’s reaching for his swords, but Peter doesn’t give him the chance to draw them, jumping back and hitting him with his webslingers as he kicks him into the wall. He doesn’t stop spraying Deadpool until his canisters run out, leaving the mouthy merc plastered to the wall. “Sorry, what were you saying? You’re going to make me shut up? Go on then, I’d like to see you try, I could use a good laugh.”

“Oh, we’ll see who gets the last laugh,” Deadpool says darkly, wriggling, but to no avail. Peter’s triumph is dimmed a little as he realises Deadpool’s going to be stuck to his wall for at least an hour unless he cuts him free, and while it might be satisfying and make the merc cool off a little, it hasn’t actually solved any of his problems. A thumping noise comes from the floorboards and Peter winces, hoping his downstairs neighbour isn’t going to make a noise complaint.

“I know this might sound hypocritical coming from me, but life isn’t one big joke, Deadpool,” Peter says to his captive, crossing his arms over his chest, “there are consequences to your actions.”

“Spare me the speech, pretty boy,” Deadpool spits, scowling heavily enough Peter can see it through the mask.

“Fine,” Peter says agreeably, moving over to his couch, “I’d rather watch tv than talk to you anyway, it’s been a long day.”

Deadpool splutters, but Peter’s already sat down and turning the tv on. “What, that’s it? You’re not going to engage in more witty banter with me?”

Peter smirks at the real disappointment in Deadpool’s voice, and replies, “Exchange  _more_  witty banter? I wasn’t aware we had been.” He flicks through the channels, ignoring Deadpool’s protests to leave Jackass on, and settles on a nice documentary.

“Seriously?!” Deadpool wails in the background, “This is  _torture._ Why do people like you, you’re such a nerd!”

“It might surprise you to know, but I wasn’t actually all that popular in high school,” Peter says dryly, despite his intentions to ignore the man completely.

“Hah, no kidding, I bet I would have kicked your ass if we’d gone to school together!”

Peter snorts, “Probably, you seem the type, although I wasn’t aware you actually went to school.”

“Yeah well, it might surprise you to know, but I never graduated high school,” Deadpool says.

“Real surprising,” Peter yawns, “and here I was, under the impression you needed a college degree to kill people for money.”

“College degrees are all well and good, but nothing beats hands-on experience,” Deadpool says, “I mean, you can study technique all you like, but when you get down to it assassination is an art, and baby, I’m one hell of an artist.”

“Less fine art, more finger painting, I’d say,” Peter says, stretching out on the couch lazily, tshirt riding up with the movement. Deadpool looks distracted, and Peter raises an eyebrow and asks, “Comfy over there?”

“Uh,” Deadpool shakes his head like a dog with water in its ears, “you bet. We should hang out more often. Heh, geddit? Hang out? I’m hanging on the wall and –“

“Yeah, I get it,” Peter rolls his eyes, “I’m not laughing because it’s not funny. Speaking of funny, how come you’re not more pissed off at me for, you know?” He waves a hand vaguely in the merc’s direction.

“Trussing me up tighter than a thanksgiving turkey?” Deadpool supplies helpfully.

“Yeah, that,” Peter replies, frowning, “what gives?”

“Well, either I secretly enjoy being tied up or I’m having fun spending time with my favourite spider-themed superhero,” Deadpool says evasively. “Or both! Ya never know!”

“Really?” Peter exclaims, sitting up and staring. “You’re actually having  _fun_?”

“Oh, like you’re not,” Deadpool says derisively, but Peter swears if he wasn’t wearing a mask he’d be blushing right now.

“It’s not the most fun I’ve ever had,” Peter says, lying back on the sofa and half-heartedly looking at the TV. Deadpool remains surprisingly quiet. Peter fidgets a little, scratching his stomach as he tries to concentrate on the narrator who is earnestly explaining the migration patterns of swallows to him. Somehow, it’s less interesting than talking to Deadpool. Sitting up again, he asks, “Really? This is your idea of fun.”

“No,” Deadpool growls, then quieter, “maybe. Gettohangoutwithyouanyway.”

“What?” Peter squints, like that’ll make things clearer.

“Don’t make me repeat myself!”

Peter gets up from the couch and walks over to stand in front of Deadpool, bemused. “Are you seriously telling me you don’t mind being stuck to a wall if it means you get to hang out with me?”

Deadpool shifts uneasily, and Peter can tell the webbing beginning to dissolve and that soon the merc will be able to break free. “Maybe?”

“Why?” Peter asks in disbelief.

“Are you always this slow or is this a bad day for you? I like you! Christ, kid, what do I gotta do for you to notice?” Deadpool explodes.

“Maybe be nice to me!” Peter yells back, before wincing, remembering his neighbours and continuing more quietly, “So this was all, what, just you pulling my pigtails?”

“Uh, yeah,” Deadpool says in a tone that implies he’s thinking,  _obviously_. “And hey, it worked didn’t it?”

“You know,” Peter tries, “there is a difference between good attention and bad attention.”

Deadpool looks at him like he’s the crazy one.

Peter leans against the back of the sofa and rubs his forehead. He’s beginning to develop a headache. “Did you never think to try being nice to me if you wanted me to like you? I hear that’s generally more effective than being an ass.”

“I am nice to you,” Deadpool mutters sullenly, “never shot you have I?”

“Well, actually…” Peter begins.

“Not lethally!” Deadpool falls quiet. Peter takes a moment to appreciate the blessed silence. It doesn’t last long. “So, if I’m nicer to you, can we hang out? Preferably without you spraying me to a wall?”

Peter sighs, “If it gets you to behave, I guess it’s worth it.”

“Sweet!” Deadpool grins. “Any chance you could cut me down?”

“If you’re going to be good…” Peter goes towards the kitchen, to rummage in the drawers for a knife.

“What the hell is that?” Deadpool asks, as Peter emerges carrying the sharpest knife he could find.

“A knife?” Peter says, uncertainly, looking at it. He doesn’t cook much, and he’s not sure what exactly this knife is used for. “A vegetable knife, maybe?”

Deadpool makes a low, pained noise. “Are you  _kidding_  me? Is that the best knife you got?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter says, rolling his eyes as he cuts Deadpool down, “I don’t go around stabbing people, in case you haven’t noticed.

“Yeah, but you gotta have at least one knife,” Deadpool argues, helping Peter peel off some of the webbing once his arms are freed. “I’ll even give one of mine, gesture of eternal friendship and all that baloney.”

“I’ll pass,” Peter says firmly.

Deadpool steps away from the cut open cocoon of webbing, and dusts off his suit, inspecting it critically. “You going to pay the drycleaning for this?”

“No,” Peter says.

Deadpool shrugs, “Fair enough.”

They look awkwardly at one another for a moment. Peter wonders if he should offer him a drink, or maybe ask him to leave, but then Deadpool’s clearing his throat. “So… this friendship thing. Did you mean it or where you just yanking my chain, getting me to do what you want?”

It’s said matter-of-factly enough, as if people have done that to him before, promised him something and then tricked him into doing what they want. Peter’s not going to be that jerk. “No, I meant it. But with conditions, like you can’t kill people if we’re going to hang out together.”

“Sure,” Deadpool says, bouncing on his feet in excitement. “No problem, mi amigo.”

“What?” Peter’s caught off guard, had not expected Deadpool to agree so easily.

“Eh,” Deadpool shrugs, “I haven’t been taking those kinda jobs for a while anyways.” He brushes past Peter to throw himself on the couch, leaving Peter to stare after him perplexed. Deadpool looks in his direction expectantly, patting the couch beside him. “C’mon, take a load off.”

Peter narrows his eyes at being invited to sit on his couch, but moves over to sit, trying to not get too close, but it’s a small couch, and they end up squished together. “When I said we could hang out, I didn’t mean right now.”

“Well, I’m here,” Deadpool pointed out in a reasonable tone, grabbing the remote.

Peter grumbles, but figures it’s not worth fighting over tonight. His stomach jolts a little at the realisation that’s he’s already thinking ahead to other nights, planning what ground rules to lay out, and he wonders how Deadpool has managed to insinuate his way into his life.  Deadpool picks a channel, some weird Japanese game show on a channel Peter didn’t even know he had, then casually drops his arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Move it, now,” Peter orders, not taking his eyes of the TV.

“Ah, c’mon, Petey,” Deadpool cajoles, “where’s the love?”

“Deadpool…”

“Wade to my friends.”

“Fine, Wade. Move it or lose it.”

“Fine,” Deadpool grumbles, moving it. Before long though, he’s kicked his legs up on the couch, and Peter gives in and lets it be.


End file.
